


Wind and Words

by velvetcadence



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anal Fingering, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Sexual Assault, Belly Button Licking, Bottom Erik, Cunning Husbands, Family Fluff, Foreplay, Game of Thrones References, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Politics, Poor Erik, Public Display of Affection, Sibling Love, Teasing, Top Charles, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 15:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1474789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetcadence/pseuds/velvetcadence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Charles of House Xavier has been out-manipulated by Queen Emma into a marriage with her cousin. Still, there are worse fates than having to wed a handsome child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Game of Thrones. I’ve been catching up on the series lately hee.
> 
> For reference: what [Charles](http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/ea/49/b9/ea49b921f9568e80ae7596c9170c6874.jpg) looks like. Hot damn. 
> 
> Much love to Kageillusionz for the beta. You are wonderful and I added extra babbu Erik scenes just for you.
> 
> Heed the Underage Tag! I will be deliberately vague with Erik's age so you can make him younger or older as you please. Stay sane and enjoy.

Charles’ groom is pale on the morn of their wedding. He’s a lanky, coltish thing, not quite as impressive as his father had insisted he was, but there’s a certain beauty about him to be sure. Erik Lehnsherr has his mother’s coloring but his father’s build, and if his feet and his shoulders are any indication, he will soon be towering over Charles.

For now, however, Charles has the advantage of an inch or two and more muscle to boot.

It’s a grand ceremony with all the trappings of Frost wealth. Queen Emma watches smugly from her perch with her mistress beside her. The whole of Genoshan court is here, pleased to see one of their finest nobles bound in matrimony to Frost kin. They do not know that House Xavier is effectively neutralized once Charles marries this boy, that all of his political maneuverings come to naught at a mere slip of a child. He had been planning to sail off to Darkholme Keep to marry Raven and use her army to start the rebellion. Now he would be grounded in King’s Landing, stuck playing courtier and pandering to the Queen until the Darkholmes find another prominent House to ally themselves with.

It is with these dark thoughts that his soon-to-be husband approaches, trembling like a leaf in a summerstorm, the color of his eyes not unlike grass. Tying Charles to this boy would ensure that he would have no trueborn heir, a further insult to House Xavier.

His bridegroom doesn’t even have the tact not to stop staring at him while the ceremony goes on. Charles stares back blankly, unwilling to show even any sign of hesitation or resentment lest the Queen catch it. To the rest of court, he might even look lovestruck. He wraps his cloak around the boy’s shoulders dutifully, smoothing it over his thin shoulders and feeling the tremors still wracking his frame. _He is simply a boy_ , he reminds himself. _The Queen plucked him from Copperhall and sent him straight into your bed. He probably doesn’t even know what to expect from you. As much as you resent it, he is merely an unwitting pawn in this long game._

Charles is old enough to know how to play. So for now, he will smile and look at his young husband like he loves him, and perhaps the Queen will be satisfied enough with the show that he can rest easier.

The reception is a farce. Charles perhaps consumes more wine than he ought to. Erik, however, is a joy to watch. He is a simple thing, with no ambition as far as Charles can tell. Rather, no further ambition now that he’s secured the hand of Xavier’s heir. Charles isn’t dense, he knows the appraising looks the boy has been shooting him all day.

“Of course I’m the happiest man alive,” he tells Lady Grey when she asks, “I have a beautiful boy at my side and a cup full of good wine in my hand. How could I not be the happiest?”

Erik blushes, two bright red spots on his otherwise pale face. The ladies titter and coo at him, talking over his head. He’s rather adorable when he’s pleased. He may look like Lord Jakob, but his sweetness is all Lady Edie’s. Charles thanks the Queen in a grand speech and ends it by dropping a kiss on Erik’s hand. It’s nothing to him, nothing at all, but his groom, if anything, deserves a happy wedding. Children ought to dream of hopeful things.

* * *

Erik becomes even more fidgety as night approaches. Charles tries to ignore it for the most part. He remembers being a virgin himself, the ache and the anticipation, the real fear of pain. Once the bedroom door closes behind them, the boy turns around and regards Charles shyly.

“H-How would you like me, my lord?”

It’s the first thing Erik’s said to him all day, and it sounds so scripted. Charles nearly laughs. Well, alright, he may be stuck in the capital like a sitting duck but there are worse fates than having wedded a handsome child.

“Lay on the bed, sweetling. Do nothing else.”

Erik haltingly does as he’s told, although he takes care to unlace his new boots before settling on top of the bed. Charles slips his own shoes off and discards his doublet, splashing his face with water from the basin in the wash corner. The coldness of it sobers him a little, and by the time he turns back, Erik has laid his head on the pillow and curled on his side.

Charles lets himself drape along one side of the bed, carrying his weight up on one elbow and simply _looking_. “Hello,” he murmurs, unexpectedly tender, brushing Erik’s hair from his eyes.

“Hello,” Erik echoes, and he stops breathing when Charles wiggles closer, cupping his nape.

“Alright?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“None of that nonsense. You may call me Charles when we’re alone.”

“Yes, my—Charles.”

“Your Charles,” he muses. Erik ducks his head futilely; at this angle Charles sees everything, especially the blush that heats his cheeks. “Don’t be embarrassed, it’s only true.”

That only serves to abash Erik even more.

Charles asks, “Are you afraid of me?”

“A little. They’ve told me what would happen tonight.”

“I won’t hurt you,” Charles promises, although it’s somewhat shallow at best. First times always managed to hurt, one way or another.

Erik lips his dry lips. “They said it would.”

“Not if your husband knows what to do.” Charles draws him closer and Erik freezes, stiff as a board. Virgins. Charles muffles a sigh against Erik’s hair and runs his hand from Erik’s nape to his shoulders, calming him as if he were a child. He _is_ one, at any rate. And Charles is twice his age.

The caress is enough to soothe him, and the more Erik starts settling down, the longer Charles strokes, first from nape to shoulder, to between the wings of his back, to the small of his waist, one steady circuit of motion. Erik has tucked his face against Charles’ neck, breathing hotly over his collar bone, and it’s strangely intimate for all that they’re virtual strangers.

When Charles pulls back to look at his face, the boy’s gaze is half-lidded, almost sleepy. “Close your eyes,” he whispers, and Erik obeys. Charles presses their lips together, chaste, and Erik gasps into the kiss. It’s different from the one he had given Erik at the altar. That one was perfunctory and quick. _This one_ is gentle and full of intent. Erik’s eyes dart open in surprise, and Charles swoops in again, sliding against the softness of his open mouth. It takes him a while to emulate Charles’ motions properly, and clumsy as he is, it’s pleasurable all the same. He’s getting hotter under Charles’ hands, and the trembling is there again.

Charles rearranges them so that Erik is flat on his back, one hand cradling his head and the other travelling down his front. Erik makes a little sound when Charles’ touch creeps under his shirt and into the band of his trousers. For a moment, Charles keeps it there, and when he speaks, his voice is threaded with desire. “I’ve barely touched you and you’re already so hot down here.”

Erik whimpers when the tips of Charles’ fingers brush against his sex, mouth falling open. He’s delicious when he does that, with his cheeks suffused with a flush and his lips a vivid pink. Charles slots their mouths together and strokes Erik’s tongue with his—the kiss muffles Erik’s protest until it fades into a hum, and Charles surges with desire, hands grabbing and his hip flexing against Erik’s thigh.

He has to remember to be careful, but it’s difficult to think when Erik is starting to smell good, like musk and youth, his body a hot line against Charles’. He unbuttons the boy’s shirt almost with vehemence, tossing the garment over the bed and attacking the bared flesh with sucking kisses. Erik keens when Charles takes a nipple in his mouth, rolling the other bud within his fingers.

“Oh, oh, oh!” He cries out, stiffening under Charles for one long moment before melting back into the bedding.

“Did you,” Charles breathes, his hand slipping under Erik’s pants only to be greeted with sticky warmth. Erik only moans weakly, head lolling on the pillow, and Charles takes advantage of his laxness by stripping him bare. Charles’ pants and the socks join the rest of their clothes on the floor, and he shivers when the night air cools the sweat gathered on his skin.

He rocks back on his heels when he’s done, kneeling over the sated boy on his bed. Erik looks all but sapped of energy, but Charles remembers being young and hungry for touch. It won’t be long before Erik will be panting for another ‘little death’.

He dips his head and tongues at Erik’s navel, amused at the way he flinches and tries to curl away. “Not there, please.”

“Why not?”

Erik’s hand comes up to cover his face. “I don’t like it.”

“Does it tickle?” Charles asks, pressing the tip of his finger into the indent.

“Ah!” Erik bats his hand away, turning his head into his arm. It leaves his neck exposed even as it hides his face, and Charles breathes into his ear, immediately gratified when Erik keens and curls his fingers into the meat of Charles’ shoulder.

There’s a pot of oil warming on the side table. Charles slicks his fingers with it and manhandles Erik on his side, the better to reach his hole. He doesn’t move when Charles parts his cheeks and prods at him there, but he shivers, letting Charles kiss him even as his fingers circle his entrance, warming the rim. Charles tells himself he won’t go too fast, although his cock is a heavy weight between his legs, an aching reminder that by all rights he can have this boy however he likes however he pleases. When he slips a finger in, Erik mewls and turns away, clutching the edge of his pillow closer.

It takes a while to get Erik used to the sensation. By the time he gets his finger in to the last knuckle, Charles’ wrist is already cramping from the angle, so he busses a kiss against Erik’s neck and withdraws. “Like this,” he tells the boy, turning him on his hands and knees. Charles is wavering, looking at Erik’s narrow hips. How on earth do they expect him to carry on his marital duties when his husband looks like he could be blown away by a stiff breeze?

Nothing for it. Erik’s muscles are twitching with excitement, his pucker clenching and unclenching in the open air. Charles wants to dip his tongue in it, so he does. Erik yelps, craning his neck over his shoulder to watch Charles, not sure if he should move away or towards the sensation. He’s hard again when Charles cups him in his palm. He imagines his beard must be tickling the soft skin of Erik’s arse, that maybe if he kissed him there long enough he’d buff the boy’s skin red just from that.

Erik has a dimple right above the crease of his rear. It’s the perfect spot to tongue at when his oiled fingers start circling the rim of Erik’s hole again. The angle makes it easier to slip his finger in.

“Does it hurt?”

Erik is panting beneath him, resting his cheek on his folded arms while he keeps his knees open for his husband, darling child. “What?” He breathes.

“I said, does it hurt, Erik?”

The boy shakes his head, and Charles licks his lips and curves his finger, questing. “Cha—ah!” Erik yelps when Charles taps at a certain spot, his back arching and his hips moving fluidly into the touch. “What was—was—”

“Good?” Charles grins, and does it again. Erik moans into the pillow, long and high, and his hips flex on instinct. Charles manages to add a second finger, twisting them around and stretching the rim before Erik comes again, his mouth wet and open beside the fist he’s clutched onto the sheet.

“Oh, sweetling,” Charles says, and he has to fuck Erik now or he’ll burn from within. It will hurt at this point, and two fingers are barely enough preparation for a prick of Charles’ girth. He can compromise, though. By the time morning comes, they’ll be looking for Charles’ seed inside of Erik to validate the marriage contract, but Charles can cheat his way around that.

He slicks himself with oil, keeping Erik on his stomach. Grips the boy’s rear with both of his hands, marvelling at how firm it is in his grasp. He’s not unaware of Erik’s training as a noble son. Undoubtedly he’d be skilled with a sword and a horse, and it shows in the trim muscles revealed on his strong thighs and arms. Oh, but what pleasure, to slide his shaft between the globes of the boy’s arse! Charles squeezes them together with his hands, using his thumb to keep his prick pressed close to the crease. It’s enough to get him off, close to orgasm as he already is.

“Erik, Erik, open yourself up for me,” Charles commands with a voice rough from desire. “Use your hands and part your arse.”

Erik hesitates for a moment, but he obeys, blushing at his crudeness, doesn’t even question Charles when he reaches around himself and grips his cheeks open. Charles pumps himself and presses close, strewing his seed straight into that pucker. Not all of it gets in, and Erik is a right mess because of it, so when Charles has enough energy to think straight, he gathers the leftover come and pushes it into the rim, making the boy moan.

“I thought you would...why didn’t you?” Erik asks.

“Why didn’t I what?”

“Aren’t you supposed to...to…”

Charles’ mouth quirks as he settles beside his impossibly young husband, finishing his sentence for him. “Put it in?” Erik nods, still blushing.

“When they ask, you must tell them I did,” Charles tells him. “However, considering that you’re still so inexperienced, we’ll save that for another time. You’re young yet, we’ll work up to it. Are you in pain?”

“No,” Erik says, “Not at all.”

“I’m glad, then.” Charles rises to snuff out the candles, ignoring the mess of clothes on the floor. Erik slips under the sheets while he’s busy, and he’s flushing wildly when Charles’ come leaks out of his hole and onto his thigh. Charles catches the look and plugs him with the tips of his fingers when he comes back to bed, feeling a little silly for already being so possessive and enamoured with this shy creature.

“Goodnight,” Erik murmurs, tucking his head under Charles’ chin. Charles kisses his hair and whispers his reply, gathering him close. He will be a good spouse, if anything. If it will take playing pander to the Queen to protect them, so be it. It is only wind and words, after all. The game of thrones is far from over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That [last scene](http://starrose17.tumblr.com/post/74231846835), for reference. Nsfw.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik adjusts to life at the Red Keep a week after his wedding. He's starting to learn that Queen Emma's court isn't all glitter and pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Ikeracity for being my personal cheerleader.
> 
> Warning for attempted sexual assault.

When the Queen’s letter had arrived, Erik had been out hawking with his younger brother. Max’s leg was doing much better after falling off his horse some weeks ago, and they celebrated by doing exactly what caused the injury in the first place. Ruth even had the time to be with them, busy as she was training under their father to be Lady of Copperhall.

At eighteen, Ruth was a woman all her own. Erik was closer to her age, but she always grouped him with Max’s babyish nine. It wasn’t just her place as firstborn that made everyone regard her differently—she had a worldly air to her beyond her years. “Old soul,” their mother had once remarked. “Look at the lines on her palm, they’re very deep.”

Erik had looked at his palm then, and wondered if in those very grooves lay his destiny. His lifeline seemed definite, although they branched into smaller lines further down his palm. He wondered what it meant. A lifetime of hardship, mayhaps? A life full of what-could-have-beens?

No matter.

By the time they’d come back from the hunt, they were sweating and winded, breathless and laughing. Ruth’s hair had fallen from her bun into dark waves on her back, and she looked so much like their mother. Max was retelling the way _his_ hawk had flown and caught its game, and their handlers nodded as if they were paying attention. There were three of them, one for each Lehnhserr child, all guards of good skill and gentle temperaments. Erik had been in a good enough mood to entertain his noisy little brother, though it had quickly soured once they got back to the castle.

“Married!” Erik had exclaimed, the food from his fork dropping unnoticed back to his plate. The table had gone quiet at the announcement. Max was too young to entertain the thought and Ruth was already engaged to a southern noble. Their parents had been dropping hints of possible betrothals since the summer Erik had turned twelve, but none of those had come to fruition, and Erik thought he’d have to wait longer to leave home. “To whom?”

Jakob could not look anymore pleased if he tried. “To the man who owns the richest land in all of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“The Westerlands?”

“Aye, boy. You’ll be marrying into the noble house of Xavier.”

“Isn’t he twice Erik’s age?” Ruth questioned.

“...Yes, he’s much older,” Edie conceded. “But he’s a man of outstanding character. The Queen thinks very highly of him. Why, I met him when he was just a lad and he’s still as handsome now.”

Erik felt his cheeks heat up in a flush. “That is...very good, isn’t it?”

“It’s wonderful news,” Jakob said. Edie placed a hand on his knee and gave Jakob a meaningful look.

Max blurted out, “But what about babies?”

“Babies?” Erik squawked.

“Max, don’t ask that,” Ruth interjected hotly, “That’s very rude.” Max pouted and kicked at his feet under the table, accidentally catching Erik’s knee.

“Max!”

“Hush, all of you,” Edie commanded. “Enough of that now. Finish your dinner.”

That night, Erik’s father had taken him aside and explained what the wedding night would be like. Erik’s knowledge of sex was limited to old books on the subject and overhearing the guards’ bawdy jokes, but he knew enough that Jakob’s euphemisms of “lance” and “hoop” made him cringe in mortification. He emphasized that Lord Charles should “break his lance” inside Erik, so that the marriage would be deemed valid, although he was told that he needn’t worry overly much; Charles had been married to a man once before. He would know what to do.

Erik could barely sleep that night, his mind wandering through dim hallways and prancing shadows. Marriage! It was a thought that both excited and scared him. The Queen had implored them to make their way to King’s Landing as quickly as possible, and after tomorrow’s frantic packing, they’d be off to the capital in less than a fortnight.

* * *

 

In truth, Lord Charles exceeds any and all of Erik’s expectations. He’s remarkably handsome, as Erik’s mother had promised, the very picture of gentility. He has eyes so blue sometimes Erik catches himself staring, and his touch is soft when he cups the nape of Erik’s neck to kiss him. He’s obviously a court favorite, and a personal favorite of the Queen’s. No one has a bad tongue against Lord Charles, at least, no one to Erik’s knowledge.

It is a good marriage all in all. A week after being wedded and bedded, Erik thinks less of him as a stranger and more of “husband” and “mine”. It’s a giddy thought. He feels even worldlier than Ruth, who is still a maid and has years to go before her own wedding.

Right now Charles is undoing him with a finger up his arse and a mouth on his nipple, and Erik can’t help his moaning despite his efforts not to. The castle is made up of thick stone that makes the sound echo all around, and it’s embarrassing to hear how wanton he is even if he and Charles are alone.

“Oh…” Erik breathes, writhing upon the sheets, head flung back in the pillows as the pleasure spirals higher, Charles’ touch insistent on _that spot_ inside him. He’d never known that such a part of him existed, and now it’s all he can do not to crave it all the time. It’s a different sensation from coming with his prick, so much more richer and encompassing, and try as he might, it isn’t possible to replicate it without Charles’ touch to inflame him.

“Come for me, sweetling,” Charles tells him, deep and rough, and it’s the naked lust in that voice that pushes Erik over. It’s almost overwhelming to be the focus of this kind of attention, and if Erik hadn’t been a little in love with his husband the moment he saw him, the satiation from his marriage bed would have convinced him otherwise.

He’s a little insensate after orgasm, and he has a feeling Charles likes him like this, splayed out and glowing by candlelight. Charles ranges over him, one hand on the bed by Erik’s flank to support him, the other pumping frantically at his cock, adding to the mess at Erik’s navel. Erik drifts in and out, still trembling as if his body is housing lightning in it, even as Charles cleans him up with a rag and tucks him into the curve of his body.

It has been a week and Charles is nothing if not attentive at night even if he sees so little of him during the day. Erik doesn’t know how to miss him yet, although he’s sure to learn. His family will be heading back home by the month’s end, and soon Erik’s days will be empty of Max’s boundless enthusiasm (a kinder word for his brattishness), and Ruth’s dry wit. There will be no mother to offer him stern but gentle words and no father to comfort him with his steady presence. In essence, Charles will be the only family Erik will be able to call his own.

There’s Charles’ personal valet, of course, who is by extension Erik’s. There are the maids and footmen in Xavier livery that are quiet, quick and efficient who are also Erik’s by virtue of marriage. Erik now half-owns the wide expanse of the Westerlands, which he has never seen before. He is younger than much of the Queen’s court, and he is like soft bread thrown to hungry ducks. Erik always feels like they are laughing at him behind his back. He must seem rough and provincial to them, having come from a home hewn straight from mountain rock and a people who are similarly mannered.

Erik spends his days polishing himself for court and taking lessons from tutors, although every now and then Queen Emma will invite a select few of the nobles for tea or to join her in breaking her fast. It is good of her to ask for Erik, Charles says.

“It’s no small thing for the Queen to show you favor,” he had explained as the valets helped him dress earlier that morning. “That you’re her kin is advantage enough.”

“Must we always try to please the Queen?” Erik had asked, rather foolishly in retrospect. He was still dazed from their early morning...activities. Charles turned around to face him, his eyebrows raised up in surprise.

“Why, of course, sweetling. It’s why we’re here in the first place.”

“Why aren’t we in your home, though? Why do we live so far away?”

“Her Grace needs me here to be Master of Coin,” Charles replied, turning away. “And my reach of influence is more considerable here in the capital than at home.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. What else are you doing today?”

“Lessons after breakfast with Her Grace, and then I’ll be with my mother and my siblings. Won’t you join us for lunch?”

“Hmm. I have business that might go well beyond noon, but I’ll send word if I can make it. Where will you be?”

“In the solar, I think.”

“Very well.” Charles steps closer and fixes Erik’s fringe, cupping his nape and pressing a sweet kiss to his mouth. “I apologize if I won’t be able to make it later.”

“It’s alright,” Erik flushes self-consciously.

With one last peck, Charles departs, and Erik finishes dressing to attend to the Queen.

* * *

 

The tea from beyond the Eastern shores is fragrant and grassy. Erik wrinkles his nose the first time he tastes it.

“Is it not to your liking, my child?” The Queen asks. She is regal and as hard as any diamond, her hair twisted up intimidatingly in the latest fashion, although she is sweet to him. He is the youngest of her small table of courtiers, and he feels like they are humoring him for his sake.

“It’s...different, Your Grace,” he confesses, “We don’t have this back in Eisen.”

She gives a laugh that is surely practiced to sound like a bird. “Of course, of course! Well then, my dear Lord Erik, it’s important that you learn to acquire the taste. This is what civilized people like to drink, after all.”

He understands the insult a moment too late. His cheeks burn with shame, which prompts another gentle laugh from her, and the lords and ladies with them titter accordingly. He stays quiet and lets them talk and coo over him, teasing him and making insinuations about his marital activities.

By the time the Queen dismisses them, he’s feeling mulish and down and embarrassed for himself. It’s petty and childish to feel so, but he finds he has no patience for courtly talk. Every word that drops from their lips is embellished and gilded with gold, 'nothing at all like the straightforward talk at home. It’s maddening. And all of court talks this way!

So far have his thoughts have wandered that Erik doesn’t realize he’s made a turn he shouldn’t have, and now he is lost within this maze of a castle. He mutters a curse under his breath and makes to turn back when a hand catches at his shoulder. He flinches.

“Lost, boy?”

The speaker is a man that towers over him by a head, and his brocade shirt distinguishes him as a noble. Despite the cut of his doublet, it does not quite disguise the bulge of his belly or the droop of his jowls. “Er, yes, my lord.”

“Where are you off to?”

“The Hand’s Tower, my lord?”

“That’s quite far,” the man says. “Pretty boy like you? That’s quite far.”

Erik nods. He’s starting to feel uncomfortable, although he isn’t sure why. “If you’ll excuse me so I might bother a servant instead of my lord.” He bows just enough to pay respects to an older noble and immediately turns on his heel, but the man catches him by the shoulder again. A servant passes by carrying a tray laden with food. She glances at Erik as if she recognizes him but keeps her head down and disappears right into the corner.

“Here’s what you’re going to do, boy,” and now the man is drawing uncomfortably close, his breath stinking of burning wine. “I want you to turn left from here. You’re going to enter the first room that you see. Take your clothes off and lie down on the bed.”

Erik’s heart is starting to race, although his whole body has gone cold and he is frozen, rooted to the spot. The man grabs his wrist in one large, meaty arm, and presses his hand to his crotch, manually making Erik rub him. Erik tries to pull back, but the fear and shame drain him of strength, and he can only turn his face away. Nobody has ever...how could this man just…right in the Queen’s castle...

“No!” Erik screams, finally gaining his head, trying to kick away.

“Be quiet, boy, or I’ll whip you!”

“Lord William Stryker.”

Erik’s heart stops. His vision is blurred by disbelieving tears, but he recognizes Charles’ voice instantly. Lord William is distracted enough by Charles’ arrival that his grip on Erik loosens; Erik bolts, rushing to his husband’s side. Charles’ face is blank, but the purse of his lips is nothing but less than pleased.

He touches the corner of Erik’s jaw and sweeps away a tear track, and then he is descending upon the other noble like a viper upon prey. There is the glint of metal as Lord William is backed into a column with a dagger at his throat. The movement had been so quick Erik had barely even caught it.

“Lord William,” Charles repeats, and it sounds as grave as a death sentence. The man sputters, gasping at the threat of something so sharp on his skin. “You filthy, pathetic excuse of a man. I should  _cut_ you where you stand, feed your cock to the pigs and send your stones to your wife in a jar.” Charles produces another dagger and drags it against the shrinking bulge of Stryker’s manhood. “Mark my words, this is no idle threat.”

“I swear, I didn’t know he was your husband!”

“I find that hard to believe, considering you were there at my wedding.”

Lord William’s face is purple from anger and fear when Charles digs his blade harder against his neck and his groin. “If we were not in the sanctity of the Queen's walls, you would already be trying to force your entrails back into your stomach. _Do not_ touch my husband again so I shall not have a reason to castrate you. _Understood_?”

“Yes!”

“I’m glad we’ve come to an agreement, then.” Charles withdraws. Lord William sags in relief against the column, only to squeal like a pig when a dagger flies and embeds itself near his face. “Forgive me, my lord,” Charles says with all the air of a predator, threat barely disguised by courtly veneer. “I cannot stand the sight of you at the moment. It would be the best if you left now unless you're eager to have your bowels cut from you.”

The man needn't to be told twice. Charles turns to Erik once Lord William is out of sight, and he sheathes his daggers back with care into their holsters by his thighs. “Did he harm you badly, sweetling?” he asks gently, cupping Erik’s face. For some unfathomable reason, it makes the back of Erik’s eyes prickle, and Charles holds him while he shakes and cries out the rest of his fear away.

* * *

 

They do end up a little late for lunch with Erik’s family, but nobody takes offense, and soon they are all ensconced in the solar of the Tower of the Hand. Ser James Howlett is a close friend of Erik’s father, and he often invites them to dine with him while they’re staying here. He’s taken a liking to Max, of all things, which Erik finds preposterous as Max’s older brother.

“Jakob,” Charles greets effusively, clasping their hands together. He nods at Ser James and places a kiss at the back of Edie’s hand. “Lady Edie, you grow lovelier every time I see you.” Edie laughs and ruffles his hair as if he were merely a pageboy. It’s strange, to think that his parents and his husband are of an age.

The table is divided in such a way that Erik and his siblings are seated on one end and the older adults are on another. Charles is beside him, of course, which is a given. His presence is distracting, because Charles by virtue is always a distraction, but Erik thinks he does well by entertaining himself with his siblings. Ruth is sharing the gossip she’s learned about the other young ladies at court from her time with Lady Jean, and Max is interjecting with anecdotes from his time running around the marketplace, much to their handlers’ consternations.

Only once does Erik finds himself drifting back to the lonely hallway where Lord William had cornered him, trying to make sense of a world where nobles weren’t...well, _noble_ , and even young lords from great kingdoms can be victims of sexual assault no matter his rank.

“Erik,” Charles murmurs, squeezing his thigh, drawing him back to the present.

Erik blinks and smiles, placing his hand over his husband’s. He’s alright, he tries to convey with his eyes. Truly. He will be.

The disgusted look on Max’s face at their quiet display of affection is enough to make even Erik laugh, and his melancholy breaks like sunlight through heavy clouds.

* * *

 Later that night, after he’s cleaned up Charles’ spend between his thighs, Erik curls up into his husband’s chest and whispers, “I was so stupid with fear I couldn’t even move. He made me touch him...there. And I didn’t know what to do.”

“You’re safe now,” Charles reassures him. "I made sure he won't touch you again."

“You did. But you won’t always be there to help me.”

“Would you feel safer with a guard, sweetling?”

“I want to learn how to fight.” Erik’s hands clench into fists. “I cannot always rely upon someone to save me. Will you teach me, Charles?”

“From swordplay in the bedroom to swordplay in the field,” Charles muses. He receives a playful smack on his chest for it. Erik’s ears are hot even when they’ve done much more than mere...swordplay. “Very well, my darling. We’ll make arrangements in the morning. For now, let us sleep. Shall I sing you a lullabye? Rock you to slumber?”

“You’re insufferable,” Erik grumps, turning away and bringing half the sheets with him. Charles laughs and kisses his shoulder, dragging him back into his circle of arms.

“I will give you the weapons you need to survive this court,” Charles promises quietly in his ear, oddly fervent. “And when the time comes, we will do more than merely survive.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throw me plot bunnies at my [tumblr](http://velvetcadence.tumblr.com/ask). Comments are love.


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